In The Forest
by Mad Server
Summary: Dean is sick. Sam can tell. There's a monster in the forest.
1. Chapter 1

Title: In the Forest, 1/?  
Author: Mad Server  
Rating: T  
Pairing: None  
Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural.  
A/N: Gratuitous h/c, ladies. Thanks to nativestar for the brainstorming.  
Summary: Dean is sick. Sam can tell. There's a monster in the forest.

* * *

We're in the forest. It's maybe 3 in the afternoon, slushy spring thaw. We're pretty sure a harpy lives in here somewhere.

We've hiked maybe ten minutes in when Dean stops short.

'Give me a minute,' he says. Ostensibly he's checking his messages, but really I'm pretty sure he's catching his breath. Dean's been off his game for days. I think he must be coming down with something, but he won't say.

We know the harpy isn't going to budge until its next ritual feeding in two weeks' time, so if anybody's going to get sick, it's actually kind of a good time for it. We're just scouting out the area now, doing our homework. It can wait.

'Let's do this later,' I say, watching Dean's shoulders rise and fall. 'I'm hungry, why don't we grab a bite.'

Dean stuffs the phone into his pocket, gives me a thin smile. 'Don't mind if I do.'

He does mind though. At the restaurant he orders toast and coffee, and doesn't touch the toast.

Now I'm sure.

'You're sick,' I say. We're at the table, and Dean's holding his coffee cup with both hands like he's cold.

He shifts in his seat, looks insulted. 'What makes you say that?'

'The fact that you're sick.'

He shakes his head, holding my eyes like the good liar he is.

'I'm fine, Sam.'

'No, you're not. I know you. And you know what, this is the perfect time to take it easy. We've got two weeks before our little friend in the forest makes its next move. We know where it lives and we know how to kill it. It's a cake walk.'

Dean bristles. He's never been good at being sick.

'Oh, I'm sorry, did I miss something? Did you see the nest and forget to mention it?'

I feel my jaw tighten but I don't take the bait.

'We've got more than enough time to pin it down. Dean, think about the bottom line here. If you don't take some time now to seriously kick the ass of whatever it is you're up against, you might not be back up to scratch in time for the harpy's next feeding, and then we're both in trouble, and so are its intended victims.'

Dean looks scandalized, but also pretty damn tired. Eventually, the tired wins out.

'Guess I could use an early night,' he says.

It can't be later than 4:30pm, but the sun's almost gone. That's winter for you.

I take Dean back to the motel and he passes out within the hour.

* * *

'Come on, you look like ass. Let's just stay here.'

Dean doesn't listen. Nothing new there. He's paler today, shoulders drawn in tight. Every once in awhile, when he thinks I'm not looking, he'll let one of his arms slide across his stomach and stay there.

'Why are we doing this,' I say as he locks up the motel room behind us.

'A man's gotta do what a man's gotta do.'

We tramp around for half an hour in the slush, but we don't spot the lair this time around either. I can't say I'm looking for it especially hard; mostly I'm keeping an eye on Dean, making sure he doesn't fall. I'm mad and getting madder. When he trips for the third or fourth time, I put my foot down.

'This was a dumb idea,' I say. My hands are on his hips, holding him steady; he's white as a sheet, breathing hard. He doesn't push my hands away, and that tells me just how hard he's having to work to stay on his feet. I frown, run a hand over his sweaty face. He bats it away too late.

'You're burning up, you know that?'

He shrugs, shakes his head. 'Whatever.'

I stare at him. More and more these days, he just doesn't seem to give a damn, and it's really starting to get to me.

I take him home and put him to bed. It's like herding cats.

It's only noon, and Dean's sick but not that sick. I make sure he has what he needs, then head back out to the forest on my own. I take the GPS, the binoculars, Dad's journal, and a handgun just in case.

The light's getting weak when I spot the nest. It matches Dad's description almost perfectly.

If you didn't know what to look for, you'd never know there was anything living here. The branches in this one spot all curve down at the ends, actually grow downward; that's the giveaway. The harpy is asleep right here, inside the trunk of this tree. The knot halfway up is probably where it gets in.

I'd like to finish this right now, but there's just no way. Feed night is really the only time to go after a harpy.

It's dark out when I let myself back into the motel room. I don't see Dean so I call out, 'Hey, I'm back.'

His answering 'Hey' comes from the direction of the bathroom. Door's wide open, so I stick my head in.

The room smells like puke. Dean's sitting on the floor, leaning back against the wall, blowing his nose. His eyes are red, his face is grey, his hair is stringy with sweat.

'Jesus, you look awful.'

Dean sneezes. 'Gee, thanks.' He gives me a weary once-over. 'You're not exactly going to win any beauty contests either in that getup.'

My jeans are soaked all the way up to the thighs, and when I glance down now I see there's mud smeared all over my jacket. I snort.

'I'm not, am I. Still kick your ass, though.'

Dean looks like he might laugh, but just ends up coughing into his elbow.

I shake my head, a little amazed at how much sicker he is now than when I left.

'No more nature walks for you,' I say, frowning. 'Do you want to go to the doctor? You look like maybe you could use some antibiotics or something.'

'Nah,' he says, 'I'll just hang out.'

I give Dean a hand back to bed and then bring him some water. While I'm getting undressed, I tell him I've found the nest.

'That's m'boy,' he says, and I feel absurdly proud.

* * *

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

Title: In the Forest, 2/?  
Author: Mad Server  
Rating: T  
Pairing: None  
Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural.  
A/N: Forgive me for the short chapter?  
Summary: Dean is sick. Sam can tell. There's a monster in the forest.

* * *

Later on, we're holed up, watching a movie.

I'm stretched out on my bed, warm and relaxed from the shower. Dean's huddled up on his, where he's sweating and shivering and slowly filling a wastebasket with snotty tissues.

The guy's a train wreck. Can't walk straight, can't go an hour without puking, never mind about the head cold from hell. He's being really quiet about it, too; I almost wish he'd bitch about how crappy he feels, and put himself on the map for me.

In a lot of ways, Jess was an easier person to live with than Dean, and this is one of them. When she would get sick, she'd get needy, would want me around to hug her and rub her back and distract her with kisses. She was an easy person to take care of. With Dean, it's different; he won't let you touch him, not unless he's about to face plant, and you can give him pills and you can give him water but mostly when he's this messed up you just have to watch and wait and not go away.

Dean sneezes hard now for about the hundredth time, blows his nose and sighs. As I watch, he reaches up and squeezes his forehead. I frown; he took some aspirin earlier, but they might not have had the chance to get into his system before he heaved.

'You OK?'

Dean drops his hand fast, looks over. I shrug at him, raise my eyebrows.

'Fan-friggin'-tastic,' he says, but of course it comes out 'fad-friggid-tastic' because he's massively congested.

'Yeah, I bet,' I say drily. I'm glad for his sarcasm though, because it means he's still doing OK. 'How's the stomach?'

Dean grins big and fake. 'It's awesome, thanks.'

I shake my head, feel myself half-smiling. 'Jerk.'

Onscreen, the movie is hitting its climax. It's that movie with the two stories running parallel, about the two cops: one infiltrates the mob, the other sells out to the mob. Now, both of them, the hero and the villain, die in quick succession.

Dean coughs out a bitter laugh. 'Ain't that the truth.'

'Hmm?'

He shoots me a strained look, eyes huge and desperate for a split-second, then looks away, shakes his head, chuckling.

'What?' I ask.

Dean looks down, smiles bleakly to himself, looking like a kid who's been caught passing a note in class and doesn't really regret it. I wait him out, and his eyes come back to mine, a hot, urgent green, and now I'm thinking how fast and hard those movie cops got it, the good one and the corrupt one, and how they both got it the same in the end. Life's not fair, of course it's not; but Dean's contract is coming due, and life's seeming even less fair than usual. That's got to be what's eating him.

I shake my head, still holding his eyes. 'We're going to get you out of it.'

Dean sighs, snuffles, turns back toward the TV. 'Leave it alone, Sammy.'

* * *

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

Title: In the Forest, 3/?  
Author: Mad Server  
Rating: T  
Pairing: None  
Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural.  
A/N: Again with the gratuitous h/c, plus, y'know, some plot.  
Summary: Dean is sick. Sam can tell. There's a monster in the forest.

* * *

A couple days go by, long and hard and claustrophobic, and then things start to look up. Dean stops puking, and his fever levels off, low enough now that he finally has a shot at getting comfortable, getting the rest he badly needs.

I make a run to the grocery store, come back and set myself up in our motel room's kitchenette. I'm making chicken soup from scratch. I never cook anymore, there never seems to be time, but for the moment there's nothing but, so I figure why not.

I work quietly so as not to wake Dean, and as I'm mincing my onions and heating my oil I start to feel good. I like the commitment of cooking, the creativity, the sense of concrete accomplishment. My hands work and my head wanders and the motel room starts to smell good.

As I'm washing up I hear Dean saying something from his bed. I shut off the water and go over to him. His eyes are closed, and I'm not sure he's awake. I say his name softly; no response. His forehead is creased, looks like he's dreaming.

I'm turning to head back to the kitchenette when he speaks again. His voice sounds funny, he's definitely asleep. He says, 'I don't want to die.'

Of course he doesn't want to die. Why should that be such a shock? But it is. I stand slack at his bedside with a dishtowel over my shoulder and ride it out.

I'm relieved to hear him admit it. At the same time though, I'm mad, really surprisingly mad. If we don't figure something out soon, yeah, he's going to die, and he's going to die for me, and I never asked him for that but it feels like it's my fault. I hate the situation I'm in and it's him who put me here, and yet he's put me here by doing such an incredibly generous thing it seems impossible to criticize him for it. And then, there's Dean's own loss. He's going to check out way too early, this amazing guy, and it's just obscene.

I finish up the dishes, but now I'm all thumbs.

* * *

A few more days go by and Dean's not flat on his ass anymore, he can at least get around the room on his own, and now it's time to start thinking about the harpy again.

There's this particular type of poison you want to use when you're going after a harpy. If you can't find it as an extract, which according to Bobby you pretty much never can, then you have to start with the whole plant and extract the poison yourself.

The plant grows all over this region, a shady thing that sticks to the woods. There's sketches in Dad's journal to help me pick it out, and I'm sure I can find some JPEGs online; but Bobby tells me it has a gorgeous bloom and I'll probably be able to find one at a florist's.

I hit up a florist's, and sure enough I find one of these plants. I stop off at a hardware store to pick up a few other things I'm going to need for the extraction process, then head back to the motel.

Dean's awake when I get back, sitting on the couch, just staring at the wall.

'Hey, space cadet,' I say. 'How you feeling?'

He blinks, looks over at me.

'Dude, you have to stop asking me that.'

I snort. 'I'm going to take that as 'better.''

I set the plant down on the kitchen counter, and Dean raises an eyebrow.

'You bringin' me flowers now?'

'You wish. They're for the harpy.'

'Tryin' to make friends with it? 'Cause I think it's pretty set on eating those kids, however much it may grow to love you over time.'

'It's a poisonous plant, smartass. Gonna make some poison bullets.'

Dean lights up at this.

'Oh yeah,' he says fondly. 'Poison bullets, right on.'

I go back to the car for rest of the supplies, come back and lay them out beside the plant; then I shuck off my coat and it's down to business.

I open up a shopping bag and pull out a big tupperware storage container, and wash it out in the sink. From another bag I bring out a jug of acetone. I dry out the tupperware and when I turn back to the counter Dean is standing on the other side, holding a pillowcase out to me.

'Gonna need this,' he says.

I take the pillowcase, searching his face for a sign he's about to keel over, but he looks steady.

'Thanks.'

I unwrap the plant and set to work tearing it up, stuffing the pieces into the pillowcase. I don't need the flowerpot, so I toss it in the garbage. Dean's gone back to the couch, where he's coughing into his arm.

When he doesn't stop coughing, I fill a glass with water and bring it over. I guess he's adjusted to my looking out for him because he takes the glass from me easily. When he's OK again he looks up and nods his gratitude.

'Don't forget to breathe,' I joke.

'Don't forget to bite me.'

Dean's face is flushed from coughing, his eyes look bruised, and his nose is a raw red. He's getting better, but he still looks like crap, and I wonder privately whether he's going to be well enough to help me with the harpy. They're not overly complicated creatures, harpies, so I'm not too worried about it. Still, I'm hoping it's an easy call when the time comes, about whether or not Dean should go.

I put the pillowcase of plant bits into the tupperware container, and pour the acetone over it. I leave it for a few minutes, then pull on a pair of rubber gloves and wring out the pillowcase. I work it over thoroughly, then toss the pillowcase of plant matter into the trash.

Next I get a pot out of the cupboard, and put it on the stove. It's the same pot I used to make the chicken soup. I pick up the tupperware container - 'Easy does it,' says Dean - and pour its contents into the pot. Then I turn up the heat, and wait.

Pretty soon I've got myself a nice batch of poison oil. I coat some armor-piercing rounds in it and we're good to go.

I hold up one of the finished bullets so Dean can see.

'Kick ass,' he says.

I grin. 'Who's your daddy?'

* * *

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

Title: In the Forest, 4/?  
Author: Mad Server  
Rating: T  
Characters: Sam, Dean  
Pairing: none  
Disclaimer: I just plain don't own Supernatural.  
A/N: A big thank you to ispeaktongue for the lightning-fast beta!  
Summary: Dean is sick. Sam can tell. There's a monster in the forest.

* * *

The day before the hunt, Dean wakes up late. It's been hours since I made the coffee run, and when I see him finally starting to sit up I go to the kitchen and put his cup in the microwave. He rubs his eyes, his face, his whole head; tests his nose with a quick inhale, seems satisfied.

'Morning,' I say when he looks over. I take a carton of eggs out of the fridge and hold it up. 'Scrambled or boiled?'

He half-smiles, opens his mouth to answer but no sound comes out. His brow furrows, nose wrinkles, and he tries again. This time he's able to make a little squeaky sound, and the rest of the word is just breath. His eyes bug out and he puts a hand to his throat.

_Crap._

I ditch the eggs and go sit down on the edge of his bed.

'Lost your voice, huh?'

He rubs his face again, then glares at me.

'Shitty deal.'

I mean it, too. His system's been messed up for weeks now; he's got to be feeling like total crap. He looks pale, frustrated and exhausted.

'Can I...?'

I feel his forehead, holding his eyes, and he resigns himself to my touch. He's warm again, and I frown.

Dean glances at the bedside table, then looks back at me and makes a motion like he's writing on his hand.

'Yeah,' I say, and I glance around the room before spotting the notepad and paper over by the phone. I grab them for him and sit back down, waiting to see what he'll write.

When he holds up the notepad for me to read, there's just one word on it: _Doctor._

I feel my eyebrows go up but I quickly nod in agreement. 'Yeah, Dean, I think that's a smart idea.'

He frowns and writes something else, and this time it takes longer. _Not a pansy just gotta hunt._

I snort, shake my head. 'Nobody thinks you're a pansy.'

I make us breakfast while he grabs a shower, and then we hit the clinic.

The clinic turns out to be a little run-down, but we've seen worse. The chairs aren't really padded anymore, and the magazines are creased and out of date. Then again, the floor is immaculately clean.

There's an hour-long wait. I expect Dean to be restless but he just seems determined. I look at the other people waiting to be seen and wonder what they're in for, who's come with them, what jobs they're missing to be here.

Finally it's our turn. I go into the exam room with Dean since he can't talk.

When our doctor shows up she's a beautiful woman not that much older than us. I glance at Dean but he's too preoccupied to be smitten. She asks us some questions, looks down his throat, feels his neck - which finally elicits a lazy smile from her patient, and I relax muscles I didn't know were tense. Doesn't look like she's pressing too hard but he flinches a couple times and she nods to herself.

'Laryngitis,' she says. She writes him a prescription, tells him to rest his voice and drink plenty of fluids. She's turning to go when Dean grabs my arm, looks up at me urgently, nods in her direction.

'Doctor,' I say. He glances at her and then cocks his head at me, holds up empty hands, taps the back of his wrist. I take a guess.

'Listen, there's something my brother was hoping he'd be able to do tomorrow. Is there anything else he can do to fight this off more quickly?'

She gives Dean an appraising look, then addresses him directly. 'Well, there are a few. Stay away from second-hand smoke. Don't clear your throat. And if your nose gets stuffy, try a saline nasal wash. Ever done one?'

Dean shakes his head, frowns faintly.

'There's a pamphlet at the front desk, just ask the receptionist. But Tom,' she says, and this is the name on his insurance card, 'don't push yourself too hard, all right? You probably won't feel much better tomorrow no matter what you do, so unless you want to make things much worse for yourself, be prepared to take the day off.'

And with that, she's gone.

Dean and I exchange a look.

'Saline nasal wash?'

We get the pamphlet and stand absorbed in a corner of the waiting room, shaking our heads. Dean's hands stray up to cover his nose as we read. When we've been through the whole pamphlet, I fold it up and put it in my pocket.

'Your call,' I tell him.

Dean sighs, then nods, looking dejected and more run down than ever.

'Guess we're gonna need a squeeze bottle.'

* * *

TBC


	5. Chapter 5

Title: In the Forest, 5/?  
Author: Mad Server  
Rating: T  
Characters: Sam, Dean  
Pairing: None  
Disclaimer: Still don't own Supernatural. (I would have noticed, right?)  
A/N: Thanks again to ispeaktongue for the mad beta skillz!  
Summary: Dean is sick. Sam can tell. There's a monster in the forest.

* * *

After the clinic, we swing by the pharmacy to fill Dean's prescription and pick up a few other things. Dean waits in the car while I go in. I'm in the store about ten minutes, and when I get back he's half-asleep, the engine running, the radio on; I can hear a dancy sort of bass beat coming from inside.

I open the door to get in and Dean jerks to attention, hands snapping up like he's ready to spar. His cheeks are flushed red against a pale face, hair's messed up and he's blinking fast. When he sees it's me, he drops his hands, shivers, and gives me a lopsided smile.

The heat's cranked up high enough he definitely shouldn't be shivering, on top of which I now register that the music playing is Aqua. I feel my eyebrows drawing together. 'You need anything else while we're here?'

He gives me a look that seems to say, _Are you high?_, probably because I asked him that before I went in.

'Right.'

I put on my seat belt. Glance at the radio, then back at Dean.

'Barbie Girl?'

Dean holds up his hands and raises his eyebrows, and the message is clear: _It wasn't me_.

I shake my head. 'I'm so onto you.'

I get us back to the motel, and as predicted Dean goes straight for his bed.

'Hey,' I say, bringing over his antibiotics. 'Take these first.'

He swallows a dose and sinks into the mattress, belly down, and that's it for him for a couple hours.

I kill the time cleaning our guns, dusting and oiling and wiping them down. I take a bit of extra time with the Taurus, the one with the pearl grips, because not that I'm one to romanticize firearms or anything but this one's my favorite. It used to belong to Dad, which is probably part of the reason I like it, but mostly it just has a really nice weight to it, and it never jams.

I've moved on to the knives when Dean wakes up. He's completely congested, and wants to do the nasal rinse.

I start taking things out of the kitchen cupboards and he drifts over, wrapped in the blankets off his bed. From across the counter, he watches like a hawk as I stir salt and baking soda into a glass of warm water.

He holds up his pad: _Right measurements?_

'Yeah man, I checked.'

I pour the concoction into a squeeze bottle and put it in front of him on the kitchen counter, feeling oddly like bartender.

'Good to go.'

Dean eyes the bottle warily, like maybe it's Drano in there instead of saltwater. Then he rubs his nose, sneezes, winces, and rolls his eyes. He throws the blankets onto the couch and picks up the bottle.

'You want the pamphlet?'

I fish it out of my coat pocket for him. He takes it blearily, then turns and trudges toward the bathroom. Shuts the door, and I hear the bolt slide into place.

I take a seat on the couch and open up my laptop. Pick away at a game of minesweeper, keep my ears open.

For awhile there's no sound at all from the bathroom. Then I hear water splashing into the sink and a loud gasp. I go very still. A minute later I hear more splashing and a few deep coughs, and then the taps running.

It's quiet for awhile after that, and I've got my minefield pretty much swept when there's a burst of coughing and choking, and I feel a rush of adrenaline because, damn, it sounds bad. I go over to the bathroom door, about to knock when I hear Dean swearing. If he's swearing, I tell myself, he's not drowning.

He comes out half an hour later, looking violated. His shirt is drenched, his face very clean.

'How'd it go?' I ask casually.

He gives me a look: _Like you weren't listening._

I shrug.

'Feel any better?'

Dean rolls his eyes, peels off his shirt. Puts on a fresh one and makes for his bed, where he cocoons himself in the covers.

Before long he's reaching for the tissues, and for the better part of an hour he just lies there, wiping his streaming nose and coughing up junk, which I guess is good because it means he's really cleaning himself out.

I stay parked on the couch, and now I've found kind of an interesting article online about corporate law, so I just soak it in and keep Dean company, and wait for it to be time to do something about supper.

* * *

I wake up at daybreak to the smell of coffee. I open my eyes and spot the cup on my bedside table. Dean is in the kitchen, fully dressed, leaning on the counter, flipping through a newspaper and sipping his own coffee. I know my brother well enough to know this is a show he's putting on for my benefit, an audition of sorts.

I wonder where Dean got the coffee and the paper, then realize he has to have driven into town to get them. Kind of a dumb thing to do, and my lips go tight.

I sit up and Dean glances up from his paper, beams and raises a hand in greeting.

'Hi. Can you talk?'

Dean wrinkles his nose, waves his hand dismissively, as though to say _Talking is for pussies. _

'Then I guess you're not coming on the hunt tonight, are you. Good, I'm glad we got that cleared up.'

Dean's face darkens but he recovers fast and holds out his hands, palms up: _Where's the love?_

'Dude, think about what you're proposing. It's just not safe.'

Dean raises an eyebrow: _Since when is our job safe?_

I sigh. It's way too early in the morning to be this frustrated.

'There's risks and there's risks, and this is one of those big dumb gaping unnecessary risks - unnecessary, Dean - that Dad would have chewed our asses out for taking.'

Dean's got a mysterious little smile tugging at his lips, and he holds up a finger now to silence me. With his other hand, he reaches into his pocket, and pulls something out, something that fits inside his fist. His eyes are sparkling as he opens the fist with a theatrical flourish, to reveal... a whistle.

He grins like a frigging Cheshire cat.

'Oh, Dean, no. No no no. Being able to make noise is not the only issue here. You had a temperature yesterday...'

Dean sweeps over to me, sits down beside me on my bed, grabs my hand, and presses my palm to his forehead. I register the healthy coolness of his skin, and he waggles his eyebrows suggestively.

'OK, so you don't have a temperature today. Fine, good. Again, not the only issue.'

His face goes blank, challenging. His eyebrows twitch up, once. _What then?_

'Do I have to say it? You've been sick for like three weeks now. You're weak.'

Dean's chin goes up at this, back straightens, eyes go steely.

'You'll get tired fast. Your reflexes are gonna suck. I don't know if you've noticed but there's kind of a lot of life-or-death situations in our line of work, where those things are really gonna count. For both of us.'

In all honesty I'm not that worried about this harpy, like, at all, not for myself. But since Dean's sense of self-preservation seems to be malfunctioning, I've got to compensate for it somehow, and if the 'think of Sammy' card is what it takes then so be it.

My little barb doesn't get the reaction I was hoping for, though. Dean ducks his head, nods a couple times, then looks up again with his head cocked to the side, eyebrows up, calling my bluff. _Dude,_ his body language says, _it's just a harpy._

'OK,' I say, 'yeah, it's just a harpy. But Dean, even if it goes well, like really spectacularly, swimmingly well, then Mr. Antibiotic Fiend over here will still have spent a good couple of hours rolling around in the slush. I mean, did you _want_ to get better, ever?'

Dean's face darkens again and he gives me one of those split-second looks he uses when he wants to probe a person to their core without their getting half a chance to read him back. Then his face goes bland, and he shrugs.

'Come on,' I say. 'Give a crap.'

He gets up and gets his notepad off the coffee table, comes back and writes down three words, slow and deliberate: _Not that important._

'I am so sick of that,' I say. 'Yes it is. Why wouldn't it be?'

He gives me a cautioning look, then writes something else.

_Dead soon anyway._

I saw that one coming but it still packs a punch.

'Not if I can help it.'

_Can't help it let's just hunt._

My jaw goes tight.

'You're going to get worse.'

_I'll wear snowpants._

I snort, roll my eyes.

He taps my chest with the back of his hand. Then, when he's got my eyes on him again, he cocks his head as though to say, _Come on._ And he writes: _This is what we do._

I suddenly understand he's going to miss this: hunting, me and him. There won't be very many more hunts before his contract comes due. And now he's played the one card that works every time.

I look into his eyes, shake my head.

'You're unbelievable, you know that?'

* * *

TBC


	6. Chapter 6

Title: In the Forest, 6/?  
Author: Mad Server  
Rating: T  
Characters: Sam, Dean  
Pairing: None  
Disclaimer: Still don't own Supernatural. (I would have noticed, right?)  
A/N: Thank you so much to everybody who's commented - love me some comments - and to ispeaktongue for another astute beta!  
Summary: Dean is sick. Sam can tell. There's a monster in the forest.

* * *

Now that we've decided Dean's coming along, there's not a lot to do.

We go out for breakfast, and I notice he eats more than he has been, which is good, although whether he's actually hungry or is just trying to make an impression on me is hard to say. Either way it's going to make him stronger, so I guess in the long run it doesn't really matter.

I hold Dean to the snow pants thing, because it'll really piss me off if he gets pneumonia, and after breakfast we hit up a sporting goods store. While he's looking at the snow pants, I check out the hunting gear section. I pick out a pop-up duck blind for us, one that's really just a flat screen so we won't get cornered if the hunt goes south, along with a couple of collapsible chairs.

We wouldn't normally use this stuff on a stake-out, and when I find Dean up near the cash he raises an eyebrow.

'That's right,' I say. 'Hunting just got cushy.'

His forehead puckers; he looks embarrassed, but this is not negotiable, and he must be able to tell because he just nods.

* * *

A harpy will never come out of its lair before sundown, so now we've got a whole lot of time to kill. We head back to the motel and kick around hunting strategies for a bit, make sure we're on the same page about how tonight's going to play out. Before long, Dean's penmanship starts going to shit, and the conversation deteriorates.

'Dude,' I say. 'Is that _fake_, _take_, _lake_, or _walrus_?'

He glares at me, flips to a new page, and rubs his eyes. We're on the couch and he's starting to get this pinched look, losing his color.

'You look beat,' I tell him. 'Grab some sleep. There's nothing else to do until tonight.'

Dean looks a little affronted. He gives me a long, searching look, then turns to the notepad and starts to write, careful and slow. I can see his hands are shaking a bit, he's that tired.

I have a pretty good idea what he's going to say, and I pre-empt him.

'I won't leave without you.'

Dean's eyes flick up to meet mine and he blinks a couple times, looks genuinely reassured. It looks good on him.

Dry lips stretch briefly into a smile, then he pushes himself up off the couch with a noticeable effort, makes his way over to his bed and lowers himself slowly.

'You need some aspirin?' I ask him. He doesn't give any sign he's heard me, which I take as an affirmative, so I get him the painkillers, and his next round of antibiotics too.

'Might as well take these while you're at it.'

Dean takes them all without comment, white and drawn, then buries his head under a pillow.

I take a quick walk around the motel grounds to clear my head. Then I make myself lunch, go over the duck blind's assembly directions, triple-check our gear, and wait for Dean to wake up. I wasn't lying, I really won't leave him, not unless he takes a big old turn for the worse, and I doubt he will. He looks like shit right now but my guess is some sleep will do him a lot of good.

* * *

The sun's low in the sky and our boots are already on, and I insist on checking Dean's vitals one last time before we go. Dean rolls his eyes, but submits.

Pulse is normal, temp's normal; relatively speaking, Dean's OK. I put the thermometer back in the first aid kit and give him a good, long look.

'You know I still think this is a dumb idea, right?'

Dean nods cheerily.

'And you get why I think it's a dumb idea?'

Another nod.

'And we're going to do it anyway.'

Dean beams, grabs both my shoulders, pats me on the cheek. Grabs his gear, and he's out the door.

* * *

We find the site easily, get our duck blind set up and settle in behind it just as the orange of the sunset is starting to fade.

The forest is thin here, tall trees but not a lot of undergrowth, all the branches bare. The harpy's tree is on the edge of a clearing and we're dug in across the clearing, nice clean line of sight. We're armed and ready. I'm glad it's not a colder night than this, although I could do without the wind.

We only have one pair of night vision goggles, and Dean presses them on me. I figure I'm probably the better shot tonight, so in the interest of keeping the two of us and those kids safe, I take them.

A harpy will come out to feed anytime between first dark and midnight, so now it's just a matter of laying low and keeping our eyes glued to that hole in the tree trunk, the one it uses to come and go.

Harpies are really nasty little creatures, all tooth and claw, and faster than greased lightning; but they have a great big Achilles heel. When they first come out of hibernation, they're zonked from all that sleep, and man do they move slowly. If you can catch one just coming out of its hole, and you've got your poison and the means to get it in past the harpy's exoskeleton, then you're pretty much set. Thing's a sitting duck.

So we watch the hole, and we wait, and like we sometimes do we start to talk about the people whose lives we're saving, these seven babies the harpy won't get to snack on tonight.

_What do you think they'll grow up to be?_ Dean writes on his notepad. The pages flap up in a gust of wind and he has to hold them down for me to read.

'Could be anything,' I say. 'Alive, I guess.'

_I hope one's a Mountie._

I spare him a sideways glance, then train my eyes back on the hole. 'A Mountie?'

_You know_, he writes. _With the horses, and the justice. _

I quirk an eyebrow.

'You do realize Mounties are cops, right?'

_Yeah but they're cool cops._

I'm pretty sure you have to be Canadian to be a Mountie, but I don't tell him that. I guess some of the babies could become Canadians when they're older.

'I hope at least three of them are frigging rocket scientists,' I say.

I feel Dean's eyes on me in the dark.

'It makes me feel really messed up that you might die soon,' I blurt out. 'Really. I mean don't you feel messed up about it?'

There's a pause, and my eyes are glued to the tree, and then I hear Dean's chair creak and I feel his hand on my shoulder. Just a quick squeeze and a light thump, but it's all I need. Something shifts inside me and I let out a breath.

* * *

An hour goes by and then another, and our arms get tired and now our guns are in our laps. Dean's started shivering in the wind, and I'm feeling like an asshole for having let him come along instead of having handcuffed him to the bed frame while he slept.

I'm about to suggest he go wait in the car, when I spot it: the harpy. Bat wings and razor claws on a round little body, size of a raccoon. It's waddling out onto a branch.

'There it is,' I whisper.

I take my time lining up the shot, and once the thing is solidly in my sights I start to squeeze the trigger. Then something touches my neck and the shot goes wide. The harpy takes off.

I slap my neck and whip around, and the wind is gusting harder than ever, and I realize it's just a branch that poked me.

'_Shit_.'

The harpy's flying away from us, deeper into the woods. It's weird to see, weird that the little wings can support the big body. I know it's going to wake up faster now that I've given it a scare, all that adrenaline pumping through it, and I swear again.

I look over at Dean. His eyes are tracking the harpy and he's up out of his chair, gun in hand. I see he's got that whistle in his mouth.

We exchange a quick look and then take off running across the clearing, past the harpy's tree and into the forest.

I'm crashing through the woods and Dean is off somewhere to my left, I can hear him running in the snow. My eyes are up, down, all over the place, everything green with my night vision.

Just when I think we've lost it I hear Dean's gun firing, and I turn and beeline in the direction of the shots. The ground's uneven over here and I'm having trouble spotting him. I hear the whistle and my heart thumps.

'Dean!'

I crest a little hill and there he is on the other side, arms over his face as the harpy tries to claw his eyes out.

'Dean, don't move!'

I take aim and fire, and the shot knocks the harpy off of Dean. He rolls to the side and I fire again, and again. The harpy's probably shrieking but it'd be too high-pitched to hear. I see its wings jerk and then go still, dark leather against the snow.

I whip off the goggles and go to Dean, but he's already on his feet. His hands, arms and face are all scratched up and he's breathing hard, but he's got this satisfied grin on his face.

'Guess we got it,' I say.

Dean nods, coughs painfully. He turns toward the harpy, wants to get a closer look at it I guess, but his legs give out on his first step.

'Whoa, hey, I've got you.'

I slip an arm around him, help him up. He blinks owlishly, grabs onto my shoulder for support.

If we had nothing better to do we'd stick around and torch the little corpse, but it's not like it's going to reanimate or anything and Dean's pretty shaky, so I steer us back toward the site. Halfway there Dean turns his face into my shoulder, and I decide we're abandoning the duck blind, and take us straight to the car.

While we're waiting for the windshield to defrost, I turn to Dean.

'Aren't you glad you wore snow pants?'

* * *

TBC


	7. Chapter 7

Title: In the Forest, 7/7  
Author: Mad Server  
Rating: T  
Characters: Sam, Dean  
Pairing: None  
Disclaimer: Still don't own Supernatural. (I would have noticed, right?)  
A/N: I've never done a serial before, guys. I had fun... and I couldn't have done it without people caring what happened next. Really. The first chapter would have just sat on my hard drive forever, because, long fics daunt me. So, thanks. And many thanks are due to ispeaktongue for getting her beta on again, with the generous and the insightful and the good.  
Summary: Dean is sick. Sam can tell. There's a monster in the forest.

* * *

Back at the motel, I herd Dean into the bathroom and sit him down on the edge of the tub. He's pale under the blood, and leans forward woozily to cradle his head in his hands. I wet a clean cloth and press it against his forehead; he glances up, dazed, then takes the cloth from me and holds it in place.

I start unbuttoning his coat and he's surprisingly permissive, and that just can't be good. He helps me get his arms free, and then takes the coat, holds it up and examines it.

The arms are pretty much in shreds. I see him run his thumb regretfully over the collar, see his lips curl in pissy dismay as he tosses it into the corner.

'Give me a hand with these other layers.'

I reach for his shirts but Dean smacks at my hands, cranky now. He wants to do it himself I guess, but he's slow, and I'm in a hurry to get at his scratches; an infection is the last thing he needs at this point, and I don't know if the antibiotics he's on for his throat are the right kind to help with this.

'Dude, come on.'

But he's on it, face cloth ditched and both hands in action, and so I grit my teeth and wait.

When he's down to his wife beater, I finally get a good look at the cuts on his arms. Luckily, his clothes seem to have taken most of the damage; there's a lot of blood, but the flow has already stopped.

I fill a glass with warm water and pour it over his arms and hands, the runoff dripping red into the tub, then pink and paler pink as I repeat the process. Dean is grudgingly tolerant.

When the water's running clear off his arms, I wring out the cloth and pass it over the scratches on his face. Two big ones down his jaw are the worst of it. Dean watches me guardedly, but I can see he's fighting to keep his eyes open now. I wipe down the skin around the cuts, getting the last of the blood off, and I see him relax fractionally, eyes slitting in what might be contentment.

I'm dabbing polysporin onto his arm when he pushes it away, suddenly alert, and reaches over my shoulder for a handful of toilet paper. He twists away from me and sneezes urgently into it three or four times, then grimaces and blows his nose. That sets him off coughing, a deep, jarring rumble that it takes him some time to get under control.

I shake my head. 'You shouldn't have come.'

He frowns and tries to look like he doesn't know what I'm talking about, but he's too sleepy and too messed up to pull it off.

I finish with the cuts and bandage him up, steady him as he stands. Then he pulls out of my grasp, gives me a look that says _Back off_, and makes his way over to the couch, snow pants swishing. He sits down heavily and leans over to untie his boots.

I pack up the first aid kit, wash my face and brush my teeth, and when I come out of the bathroom Dean's still working on those boot laces. I'm not really surprised. I go over to the couch and sit down beside him, undo my own boot laces, and then I just lean over and do Dean's too. He moves his hands out of the way and lets me work.

Picking at a knot, I steal a look at Dean's face and see he's watching me. He has a funny look on his face: astonishment, and something else.

Three weeks later we're down in Tampa, looking into a string of mysterious disappearances, and I wake up in the night from a dream, just some dumb dream where we're hustling people at bumper cars, and suddenly I know what that look was.

Admiration.

* * *

end


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